Anecdotal
by Pyrasaur
Summary: A collection of drabbles: glimpses of colourful lives. Rated G through R, various pairings and nonexplicit game spoilers.
1. Indeed: PhoenixLarry

If Phoenix were someone else -- colder, clawed and fanged -- he might not put up with it.

"You don't understand, Nick." The mournful voice wallowed in his dress shirt's folds, moist breath seeping to his skin. "She...I thought she really might be the _one_!"

He sighed, and pinched his nose with the arm not full of Larry. If wishes were horses, beggars would want saddles, too.

"You say that about all of them." It came out gentler than he meant. Phoenix shifted -- the couch grumbled, and Larry tightened his limpet grip.

"That's 'cause ..."

Quiet for a blessed instant, and then a wail hot and loud against his chest. "Oh, I don't know, I'm done for! Finished! Just hang me out to dry on the cruel wind!"

The wind never did a thing to deserve it. Phoenix smoothed a spike of sandy hair poised to take out his eye, and rubbed sob-jerking shoulder blades like he knew how to comfort the hysterical, and grunted when Larry's grip cinched past comfort around his ribs.

"My life is an tale of romantic t_ragedy_, it's an epic Shakespeare couldn't have written 'cause he'd be bawling his eyes out, I-I just ... it's... I try so _hard_, man!"

And the next sob was quiet, a ripping of threads. Different than ever before and it shot clean through Phoenix's heart; It didn't matter if Larry deserved, earned and asked for this fate.

"W-what...am I doing wrong? I treated her like a queen, gave her everything, I'm a great guy! What did I do?"

Dropping his head back, staring at the off-whitish ceiling, he lived the old feelings. Accusations rang sharp in his ears; dull weight settled around his heart. Larry snuffled wetly into the last clean shirt to Phoenix's name, and Phoenix couldn't bring himself to mind. No one should have to cry.

"Yeah." He smoothed the hair spike again, and watched it bounce listless. "It's not your fault."

The sobbing dwindled; the memories didn't.

"Why can't women be more like _you_, Nick?"


	2. Higher

Passing the fourth-floor stairwell and hearing a determined puff of breath, he stopped in time to see Edgeworth's silver head rise over the cement steps. Phoenix regretted his pause a moment too late; their eyes met. Edgeworth stiffened, a blizzard's gust sweeping his expression away, and he jerked icy gaze to the empty air. He didn't pause for breath at the top, only swallowed the indignity, and he stood straighter -- more regal -- than ever as he passed by, down the hall. It made more sense than comfort allowed.

After all, using the elevator would have been so much easier.


	3. Payment: GantLana

Sickly-warm moisture -- blood, _blood_ -- crept slow along her palms' arches, caressing her fingertips.

"Excellent work, my dear." The low purr of Gant's voice set Lana's skin crawling; one heavy hand engulfed her shoulder. "Our little secret, hmm?"

Nausea roiled. Droplets pattered from her fingertips to cold tile, an unsteady beat.

"What's your price?" she bit out. She wasn't stupid enough to want mercy, not from him.

Silence. She could feel his cat eyes tearing her flesh -- the reek of blood hung thick.

"Nothing," and leather-soft fingers stroked the line of her throat, "That you're not willing to give."


	4. Unorthodox

"Hi, Nick!" Maya grinned down at him.

He stopped with a jerk. Rain drummed on his umbrella and pattered on the sidewalk -- much too loud to be called silence.

"Maya," he finally managed, "Why are you sitting in a tree?"

"Training!" she chirped, kicking her feet in the open air, wiping wet hair out of her eyes, "It's actually a lot like a waterfall!"

If Phoenix knew anything, he knew that Maya's logic was an art far more mystical than chanelling. He sighed, and settled for being grateful: it could have been a _thunder_storm.

"Come on up, Nick!"

He pretended he didn't hear her.


	5. Sapphire: GantLana

In the glare of heavy sun, amidst the lap of pool water, it was easier for Lana not to hate him. She watched him pass back and forth on the steady strokes of an athlete, muscles sliding beneath endless bronze skin. She leaned back to drift and soak in summer's heat, closed her eyes and felt the touch of current over her skin, listened to rhythmic splash and let it soothe.

Only when Damon's shadow fell over her did Lana open her eyes, look up at him tall and statuesque and smiling -- a real smile, it lit his eyes. There in the water she could forget; silver hair clung wet and limp to their foreheads, and he tasted of chlorine. Cool tile pressed to her back and she locked her heart tight enough, shut away the sobbing of memories -- for a moment, it was just like old times.


	6. Guardian

She couldn't help covering her eyes -- the final crunch sent new shudders through her, another wave of prickling over her skin.

"There, all gone."

Pearl moved her fingers, watching the tissue ball tightly in Mister Nick's hand; she tried not to imagine those skinny, creeping legs. "Are you sure ...?"

"Completely sure." He gave her a lopsided smile. "It's okay, Pearls, I've never seen a spider that big, either."

Even the word sounded like it should crawl in dark corners. She followed him, thumbnail worried between her teeth, to watch the tissue arc effortless into the trash can.

"You're very brave, Mister Nick."


	7. Regard: MiaLana

Four AM: fatigue ran in Lana's veins and smeared her senses soft at the edges. The coffee cup in her hands had emptied itself yet again.

"Everyone deserves a chance," Mia said, smiling faintly, turning a page, "I like to think."

There was no textbook in Lana's lap and no rumble of a coming exam, nothing but the light in Mia's deeply brown eyes -- the woman knew no fear. She knew only fire, only a drive that smirked _I can take on the world. Just watch me._

Sensation swelled warm, and needed a name. Lana decided on _attraction._


	8. Twilight: EdgeworthGumshoe

Edgeworth was very, very quiet for a moment, looking out over the immaculate green of the backyard.

"You've been calling less," he said, nursing his words like brandy. Breeze stirred his hair, and long shadows drifted across his cheekbones.

He nursed the words he didn't say, too.

Another moment of watching Edgeworth -- ash-dark eyelashes flickering, meshing with stray hairs of his bangs -- and Dick looked to his own square hands in his lap. "Yeah. Hope you didn't need me for anything."

"That's not what I meant."

Lacing his fingers, unlacing them, Dick grabbed for the slippery things he could never stuff into words. The brush of their hands exchanging stacks of reports, and the smoothness settling into Edgeworth's motions where he used to twitch, the inexplicable certainty that he didn't _mean_ the cold steel in his voice -- maybe Dick wasn't the sharpest saw around, but he had his hunches.

"I'd hate to bother you, Mister Edgeworth. You're fine on your own, right?"

He looked up in time to see the darkness fade -- a trace of grimace washed off Edgeworth's face.

"Yes." And with the twitching beginnings of a smirk, "I like to believe that."

The air felt right; Dick lifted an arm, laid it over Edgeworth's wide shoulders and didn't mind his flinch at all. Evening drifted in around them.


	9. Half of the Truth: GantLana

Her workdays filled with Gant, his smothering presence, the leisurely pierce-and-twist of his gaze. They tracked the slightest of clues, driving each other more meticulous, leaving _legendary_ on the rookies' lips and rage for the guilty to gnaw. Not a day went by that Skye didn't hear his merry bark of laughter, his thunderclapping hands, his muttering aloud over a report. She sensed his every breath and every movement; she should have felt familiarity.

She didn't. Expecting wasn't the same as being sure.

Because the world was cold, yes, but a person never had to be. Even an officer long since jaded could still let warm life into their eyes, over a welcome lunch break or at the sight of a loved one or when locked dueling with a suspect. They all did, Marshall and Goodman and Starr, Skye must have, too. Gant showed nothing. His gaze was always crystal-sharp, his remarks entirely too easy. Anger was a brief gust of storm wind over him, a moment's flicker, nothing more.

She should have craved it as familiar -- Gant's grip pinning her hands above her head, the heat of his breath in her ear. She expected it, oh, did she expect a wall at her back and his broad chest unyielding, skirt bunched over her hips and every hissed word electric through her. No warmth in his eyes then either, just his blinding strike, bruises for memories and she shook for far too long afterward. Expecting him changed nothing.

It came to Skye while scrying through the two-way mirror, her ankles crossed and a hot mug in her hands, Gant looming over their suspect. Interrogation tested will -- looking into the abyss and being looked into in return, such philosophy came to mind. Gant still showed nothing. Sinister smile and piercing gaze and the low hum of danger; no flicker of anger, no frustration or contempt in his eyes, no _fear_. She watched, turning the mug between her palms until the coffee had long cooled and the suspect had long unravelled. What made a person real -- what made him larger than life?

She couldn't pin reason to him, couldn't form sense and it spilled from her tongue in their office's shelter -- "Sometimes I don't even know you."

His grip loosened around her shoulders, thoughtfully slow, and he straightened to full square height. His eyes glowed with the twilight, luminous green glass.

"Oho, my dear." An instant of narrow glare -- a predator -- before his smile returned. "You must not be paying attention."

Gloved fingers settled at the base of her skull, and ozone warning prickled down her spine.

He was a force more than usual that day. The aches lingered, same as his touch; her handwriting was trembling illegibility.

Their reputation grew, they the legendary. Skye watched months pass, watched the wrinkles etched around Gant's eyes from smiling. True natures eventually showed themselves -- she met his gaze and expected, always.


	10. Relevance

"Mister Edgeworth."

Feminine voice lingered behind his thoughts, a yellow-softness no words could bind. Robe's shifting folds, grooved mat against his shins, herb-smoky scent -- Gregory shifted a fraction and the body obeyed, the bones and flesh thrummed around him, breath swirled glorious inside.

"Yes."

"We'd like you to answer a few questions for us."

Grim memory swarmed in, gripped him and chewed until pain blazed in the borrowed chest. Particulars of existence didn't matter, he had bigger concerns; Gregory raised fingers to his glasses and found only air.

"If you tell me that my son is all right."


	11. A Means: PhoenixEdgeworth

Edgeworth hated that hungry look before, and that dazed, blissful look afterward. His bane was stumbling over suit buttons, struggling with zippers, suddenly forgetting how to loosen a knot. He loathed the drip of sweat and loathed it more when chill set in. Words could never be harsh enough for gasping breathlessness and the shake of surface under his weight: those were cloyingly familiar, met with panic's white surge. The world inverted for long moments and rules vanished; lines smudged into heat and chaos.

The sound Wright made -- low, thin, a cry open and helpless -- made it all worthwhile.


	12. Long Enough

Years passed before Lana visited the graveyard again, but time couldn't touch such a place. Breeze stirred the trees to reverent whispering; white clouds huddled. Her heels clicked slow on walkway stones, back and forth, one tranquil row at a time.

She always brought daisies, a leafy bundle of them. Daisies blossomed in the dull sands no one spared a glance for -- they seemed sincere. She hoped to be.

Most of them went to victims, the swarms of names with sympathy tied on, people who had to be more than their crime scene but Lana would never know. Sometimes the daisies paled beside grander arrangements, roses' curls and lilies' sprawl and showers of lacy fern. Sometimes the daisies lay on ragged grass, alone. Lana read each headstone, turned each name on her tongue and wondered if she had any right to remember.

Neil's grave brought memories back, visions of his easy smile, the soft drawl of his words and the ghost-scents of leather and blood. She knelt to pull fine-rooted weed sprouts, and left a daisy in their place. He would have appreciated the simplicity of just one, nestled against the headstone for small shelter.

A maple stood outside the low fence, solemn. It hurt, failing to know where Mia rested -- another graveyard, another city, anywhere in the world -- but Lana looked up at the light-dappled canopy and thought of fall, the red-blazing maples marking school's beginning, classes, late nights poring over books. She lay a daisy on a root's swell, and hoped hard that the gesture counted.

Close, a few clicking steps back along the walkway, was her parents' grave. Those memories were time-faded but no less warm. Two daisies had twisted together, a spiral distinct from the other flowers, and they were laid where they belonged.

Bruce's headstone stabbed Lana hard with guilt -- but she deserved as much. She closed her eyes and saw the friendly glitter of his dark eyes, felt daisy's thin stem leave her fingers, couldn't shut out out the feel of lifting stiff weight.

The names marched on, the bundle dwindled. Lana searched her heavy heart for anything missed and that was when it seized her gaze, the grave in the lot's corner: Damon's. She knew, of course she knew but the letters carved in stone were strange like a trick of her mind, the grass too plain to belong. He stood larger than life itself. He lingered in her dreams, dark and smiling, always watching; _legendary_, the headstone said and it was true -- she couldn't mourn a man who hadn't died.

Breeze murmured too loud. Lana had run out of names, of fond thoughts, the daisies stared at nothing and their stems mutely crackled in her grip. She threw them onto his grave and left. Years still weren't long enough.


	13. The Thrill: PhoenixEdgeworth

"_Wright._"

If it were anyone else -- palm flat on the wall by his head, gaze intense and too close -- Edgeworth could have felt shock, maybe outrage. But this was too typical of Wright, this pressing onward with tense hope in his eyes, and far too predictable.

"What do you think you're doing?"

Wright stared, searching Edgeworth's face for his answer. His fingertips shifted audibly against the office plaster; he swallowed with a dry click, adam's apple bobbing.

"I have no idea."

Of course he didn't. Wright thrived on adrenaline, soaked it in for his strength -- if only, Edgeworth thought as the maddening blaze consumed him, everyone were so lucky.

"I can't say I'm surprised."

And Wright's presence crushed, his quickening breath feathered over Edgeworth's chin, lit hot sparks on every nerve. It was a contest between them, a duel and a tight-locked dance, always. The wall at Edgeworth's back was his aid for shifting, leaning against, smirking at Wright from.

"Go ahead, then."


	14. Encouragement: PhoenixMia

One exam left; he resonated with nerves, like he was meeting a firing squad instead.

"I should have studied more," Phoenix muttered.

Mia's brows drew, and she slid her grip higher around his bicep. Glossy-waxed halls echoed and refracted their every step -- notes in a clattering melody.

"I'm sorry, Mia. I went over all your notes but it's that paper, I should have written on questioning technique."

The regal arches of the literature wing passed by, and they came to tall doors standing open. A high note of panic seized his voice.

"I meant to do the reading, really!" Tight-strung pause -- full of doubts, silent ones but they itched at her anyway. "A few more percentage points and this wouldn't--"

"Phoenix_--_"

She stopped and shoved his shoulder, forcing him to turn.

"_Stop it._"

He held her eyes, his own as ocean-wide and as worried as the day they met. Wiser, though: he searched for something now. Mia couldn't help but soften, melt slow and smile.

"You're going to do fine, just keep your head in there. Think carefully. I have faith in you -- remember that."

Pride flooded him, straightened his bearing and let him smile back. This was her apprentice, going where his heart commanded. This was the real Phoenix: a fledgeling meant for greatness, a legend in the making.

"Thanks, Chief," he murmured.

She found his hand, rough-knuckled and warm. And Mia didn't know why she stretched taller, what she sought until she kissed him, until she pulled away the moment his mouth twitched response.

Phoenix stared, and flushed very pink.

"W-what was that for?"

She tipped her head, and smiled almost as broad as she wanted to.

"Luck, I suppose. Now get in there."


	15. Dealbreaking

It was an ordinary package -- dull cardboard, post office inkmarks, tape glistening on every seam. Light enough to be anything, and packed too carefully for the contents to speak when shaken.

Gant held it, and stared. The Bluecorp logo stared back. He had no reason to receive gifts -- they had a _supposed_ understanding, White _supposedly_ knew his place. Scrutinizing their every past exchange would only raise Gant's blood pressure, of course. He tucked the package under his arm, and smiled, and pressed elevator buttons. The world would never know if one little box fell into the incinerator, by accident.


	16. Semantics

"So," Maya said around a mouthful, licking the sheen of butter from her fingers, "These are shrimp."

"Yes." Phoenix tended to remember the names of painfully expensive things.

"Not prawns."

Who knew how food got the names it did? He leaned back in his chair. "I guess not."

"But there must be some important difference, right? Or else there wouldn't be two names."

Thoughtful quiet settled, as Maya scraped her pink-washed plate with a bread crust and Phoenix hoped against reason that she wouldn't want seconds.

"Now," she said, and grinned, "If it's anything like stepladders--"

He buried his face in a palm. "Don't _start._"


	17. Tactics

"You're a connoisseur of tea, are you not, Mr. Edgeworth?"

Fey blocked his path, arms folded and thin-veiled mischief in her eyes -- making a blatant annoyance of herself. The courthouse's human traffic streamed past.

Edgeworth straightened, and let his eyes narrow. "I am."

She smiled. "I've got a recipe for jasmine-glazed chicken. Which tea variety would you recommend?"

Of all the tricks defense could pull, questions from utter left field didn't seem like Fey's style. Edgeworth stared; her gaze never faltered.

"Oolong-based." The dingy cream wall demanded his attention, "Use a high grade."

And from his peripheral vision, Fey still smiled too much too be properly smug. "Thank you."

Her heels clicked sharp, away into the crowd mutter. She had sources of information and the sun-bright nerve to use them -- Edgeworth scowled. He hated not knowing whose salary to cut.


	18. Charity: MiaEdgeworth

Miles swallowed, a wet click soaked up by the quiet. "You never struck me as the type."

Mia smiled. Her heeled steps clacked slow; crop's tip passed sleek over her palm; she came to stand over his kneeling form and run gaze down his pale expanse of back. "Really?"

But he knew better than to answer. A turn of hand and the crop glided between his wide shoulders, down ridges of backbone to where his wrists pressed tight. No bonds yet; the crop rose, stroked his neck and his hands spasmed tighter. Unacceptable -- a snap against his shoulder blade so he hissed, drew taut.

"I _said_," she trilled, "Don't move, Mr. Edgeworth."

And circling him, slow, leather-smooth, Mia eyed him through the fall of silver bangs. How different from the cold man she faced across the courtroom, how vulnerable a creature he was. She crouched, watched effort flutter in his closed eyelids and tight-drawn brows; she trailed gloved fingertips on his throat, pressed Miles's chin up to face her, saw the craving liquid in his eyes -- if she didn't satisfy it, who would?

"I don't know that I am the type."

She gazed through her lashes at him, smiling with all her warmth. Crop came to rest on the floor, and her grip closed on the coiled length of rope.

"You're just a special case."


	19. Silence

"I heard you got promoted," Mia said, head tilted curious, teacup raised. "How's your new job?"

She should have expected it -- simplest questions triggering darkness and panic, office-prison's echoing walls, body weight limp and precious. And Damon's slow-tearing eyes -- every waking moment and every sleeping one, too.

"It's fine." Lana slid grip tighter around her cup.

Guilt-heavy silence. Mia was no fool.

"Stressful, at times."

And with a farce of a smile, Lana managed to meet that gaze. Mia tore differently -- with worry, quiet in her eyes. She nodded anyway. The conversation limped on.

Lana hadn't thought it would stab like betrayal.


	20. Sensibility

Today was a good day to be Phoenix Wright. The office stood quiet and serene around him; his pencil scritched on boring legal records; his takeout coffee hadn't tipped into his lap yet and no desperate clients had come stampeding in so far and the sky, when last he checked, still clung to its moorings. Life spread out comfortable.

So when Maya poked her head in to assure him that everything was fine, Nick, she fixed it, Phoenix nodded, and asked no questions. He sipped carefully at steaming-fragrant coffee, and turned a page -- he knew better than to invite trouble.


	21. Remnants: AU

"I won the case today."

Mia turned a fraction. Mentioning law always drew her attention, a sprout struggling toward sun. Phoenix began another brushstroke; the tangles smoothed away and her hair shone chestnut.

"It was a tough one, but I caught von Karma in his own trap." Only by imagining Mia, the fierce determination she once was. _Think outside the box, Phoenix._ "Fifteen years of hiding a murder... I just hope Edgeworth will be all right. He seemed really shaken up, and I can't blame him."

"Edgeworth ..." she murmured, "Do I know him?"

And however many times he regaled her with stories, Phoenix wanted to tell her again -- maybe _this_ time Mia would remember, maybe the old brilliance would spark back to life. A lump filled Phoenix's throat.

"Yeah. You've met him."

"Oh." Her voice drifted; her gaze wandered out the window and into the winter winds.

And Phoenix could brush her hair for hours, watch it fall liquid down her back and catch light, but there wasn't time today. "Come on," he said, "Maya will be here soon." One last brushstroke to smooth her part -- the scar lurked jagged and ugly on her scalp, he could never brush enough hair over to forget.

He moved in front of her, tugging a fistful of hair free of the brush bristles. Mia watched him, serene in the mirror, hands folded in her lap and her eyes doll-glassy.

"Can you tell me about the case?" A slow tip of her head, echoes of her prying and her coy smile. "All of it?"

He stopped, watched her a moment. And Phoenix set the brush down slow while his heart broke.

"Sure, chief. Whatever you want."


	22. Impression

His eyes seized her, stroked gentle while they tore -- no one had ever looked at Lana like that. Straightening, stiff-proud, she lifted her chin.

"Ms. Skye," Officer Gant finally said, smiling, tilting his head so jagged black-and-silver waves swayed. "A pleasure to meet you, my dear."

His grip swallowed her hand, firm; he stood tall, broad-shouldered in the uniform and something floundered warm in Lana's chest.

"I'm starting school soon. I-I'd like to be a detective." Among other things, among the other dreams that made her peer into the police station and into courtrooms just to _see._

Officer Gant held her hand still -- tightly, flitting the edge of discomfort. Law enforcers radiated strength. She knew that. Lana forced her gaze back to his, she stood for her vivisection and hoped fierce that he liked what he found.

He stared. "The force could always use another skilled officer, Ms. Skye." And his smile darkened, both wide hands enveloping hers as though he pressed a secret in. "I look forward to working with you."

And her strings pulled -- Lana nodded, she promised.


	23. Enticing: DiegoMia

One day, when evening spread golden and while Mia's files shuffled into place, his touch stopped being strange.

She always expected Diego, of course -- his wide hand stealing around her hip, his presence sparking down her spine. No flinch in her anymore, and no flaring indignity, and no ghost of acolyte's robes on a nervous girl. She couldn't smell dusty ledgers in an office nook without anticipating his approach.

Today, though, it wasn't _strange._

Maybe Diego knew that, maybe he tasted conquest in the air. The hand on her hip slid higher, made itself at home in her curve of waist. He murmured, low and smirk-edged; _kitten_ lit her nerves to humming.

Mia's hands faltered because they always did; she laid the files aside. Here was the dance started and never finished, steps she knew and steps to learn and the weight of invitation. Quiet prickled on her skin, his dark-rich scent embraced her until she couldn't help but imagine that touch moving, gliding sure over her skin.

If she didn't know better, Mia replied, she'd swear he couldn't remember her name.

He laughed -- one blunt note, a caress of steam on her ear. The fluttering nerves built with each breath. Maybe her robes hadn't left at all.

Fine things, he purred, he grinned, were best sipped deliberate and appreciated slowly. It wouldn't do to throw away the anticipation--

And she didn't recall moving, couldn't place when she turned or when the roving hand cradled her small of back but she faced him now, watched the sound form on his lips:

--_Mia_.

A girl foolish enough to believe him -- she smiled and filled warm, she laid hands moth-soft on his chest. Presence sang and drew her closer, Diego's arm solid around her and his fingertips tracing hair aside, stroking jawline, pressing her chin up until time fled and the moment spread away forever--

It took a moment to sense air's chill, for Mia to open her eyes and find the room dark. Too late to be working, Diego had seemingly decided; the hall lights haloed each unruly spine of his hair and he beckoned with a jerk of his head. Slowly, Mia's hands fell to her sides, and she forgot to feel anything but determined fire.

He wouldn't get away so easily -- not this evening.


	24. Token: PhoenixEdgeworth

"You forgot this," Wright said, and fished a black-laquered pen from his pocket.

Neither of them had noticed in the trial's chaos, it seemed. And however perfectly that pen fit in his fingers, however familiar, Edgeworth let his mouth tighten -- it would have been an acceptable loss.

"Wright. You came all this way for just a pen?"

He wilted, and rubbed at his neck. "Well, yeah. Mostly."

But Wright stood firm and the pen stayed in his curled, half-offering grasp, suspended between them. Edgeworth was no stranger to the wrench of awkward silence but this was different, this stirred things he thought he had buried. He sighed. He reached for the pen; Wright wasn't about to just go away.

And Wright seized his hand, pressed smooth plastic in and held. Edgeworth looked up, indignity dying in his throat at the sight of that face -- the embarassed smile and sincere-shining eyes, that look utterly Phoenix Wright.

"You're ..." He glanced to Edgeworth's captured hand between his own two, and didn't release it. "You're okay, right?"

Memories lurched; what kind of question was that for the Demon Prosecutor?

"I mean, after von Karma and ... I'm here if you need anything, you know that, right, Edgeworth?"

As if Wright hadn't already proved it. As if the childhood memories glowed warmer now, and the letters and the years truly meant something.

He meant to pry Wright's hands away and found himself weak; Edgeworth laid palm over Wright's knuckles. Perhaps the world would be a better place if more people cared so hard.

"I'm sure I'll manage." The floorboards dragged his gaze away. "I'll ... call."

Why did he hate the way he shook inside, the way their hands wound too humid and the pen intruded and the quiet loomed? Edgeworth mustered the strength to cock his head, and meet Wright's eyes.

And Wright smiled wider. "I'd like that."

He never used that pen again. It lay on his desk, and stared.


	25. Collateral Damage

"Knocked it _down?_" Pearl's hand flew to her mouth, surprise widening her eyes to saucers, "Really, Mr. Nick? You broke it right off the hinges?"

Settling slow into the armchair, Phoenix muttered, "Err, knocked it open, at least."

Pearl smiled, small and conniving in a way only Feys could manage. "You must have been very worried about Mystic Maya!"

Not as worried as right now -- keeping the stiffness out of his movement took care, constant attention while Maya and Pearl were near. And if they ever saw the ugly purple his shoulder had turned ...

Phoenix smiled wry. "I guess I was."


	26. Footloose: PhoenixMia

It was pretty ridiculous, honestly. But the relief-thrill of verdict still sang in Phoenix's veins, and the tinny little radio filled her office with life, and as long as Mia danced with him, he didn't care. Momentum fanned her long hair and for a moment, her smile was girlish in a way he'd never seen.

"I didn't know you were so good on your feet, Phoenix."

"I _was_ an art major," he said, and grinned hopefully, "That's like dancing. Sort of."

"Oh, of course."

She smiled knowing, and swept back in electric-close, their footfalls nowhere near the song's beats at all. Mia couldn't seem to decide if she wanted to lead -- her hand was sometimes firm on his hip, sometimes laid coquettish over his shoulder -- and Phoenix couldn't have minded if he tried. Her other hand stayed laced in his. A step and flair and spin, and he suddenly had courage bright enough to dip her; the world was Mia's twinkling eyes and earth-warm laugh, her weight on Phoenix's elbow.

He moved to a beat for hours afterward. The song should have gone on forever.


	27. Lure: GantEdgeworth

Edgeworth expected that stare, cat-sharp eyes and agonizing quiet. He tightened his jaw, deepened his frown -- he stared back.

"Worthy, my boy," Gant finally drawled, "I'm sure I _could_ do something about the rumours."

He braced his hands on chair arms, and stood. Shadows slid over him, dark and orange in vivid fright-house patterns.

"The question is--" A slow roll-click of shoes, circling, clattering off the high, dark walls, "--What can you do for me?"

And now the trembling instinct voice, low in Edgeworth's gut, chanted _I knew, you knew._ This was what crackled in the air when Skye fell deathly silent; this was what raised his neck hair when Gant smiled fond. Forcing his spine straight, Edgeworth managed a smirk dry as sand.

"I thought you were better than that."

Footsteps drew close and Edgeworth jumped -- hands, broad and smothering on his shoulders, stroking leather-smooth.

"Oh, Worthy," and that growl stirred his hair, turned his stomach hard, "But I _am._"


	28. Respite: DiegoMia

She hadn't slept so well in weeks -- that was Mia's first thought, drifting in hazy. Not truly _sleeping _in weeks may have contributed to it.

And she would have moved, squirmed on the couch's creaky springs or shielded her eyes from the acid-bright morning sun, but she was comfortable. Traces of rich-brewing coffee clung to the air. Diego's thigh made a perfect pillow, and his arm draped over Mia's waist said everything he was too proud to.

Mia closed her eyes, and listened to his even breath. Thought stayed away for a moment more -- that was all she needed.


	29. Return: EdgeworthGumshoe

Gumshoe didn't mean to, not at all -- he knew how Mr. Edgeworth didn't like things like that. But his very favourite green trenchcoat, folded neat and smelling crisp-clean just as he was sure he'd never see it again, and he couldn't think of a thing he'd rather get. He slid its familiar weight back on and he lit up Christmas-bright at the thought of it being a _birthday_ present, no one else had remembered, maybe--

There was a wonderful moment where the hug was warm and hard, the whole world wrapped up blissful in Gumshoe's arms. He didn't even mind how stiff Mr. Edgeworth went. Mr. Edgeworth _hated_ people touching him, or at least Gumshoe was pretty sure he did and there was nothing blissful about this, what was he _doing_--

He jerked away to arm's length. "Oh, geez, sorry, Mr. Edgeworth! I-I didn't--" He was gripping wide shoulders still and Mr. Edgeworth was so solid and real but Gumshoe yanked his hands off, stared wide-eyed at everything at once, he'd probably never see another paycheck again "I mean, it's-- I'm sorry, sir! I didn't mean--"

The look stopped him -- Mr. Edgeworth's brows bent confused, something smile-like twitching on his mouth like a dying fish. Gumshoe tried to put his hands somewhere safe -- by his sides maybe, no, stuffed in the coat's pockets, what a mess he always made of things.

"Uhh, w-what I mean is thank you, sir. Much appreciated." The back of his neck itched.

Confusion faded from Mr. Edgeworth, back to his usual cool grace. He straightened -- not that he had ever slouched.

"I ... should have returned it sooner, if it means so much."

He turned away, gaze darting back up; a friendly little chill ran down Gumshoe's back at that look. And as Mr. Edgeworth left, he muttered, "Happy birthday, Detective."

Gumshoe tugged his lapels straight, watched Mr. Edgeworth's retreating back and grinned wide. It was a pretty good day, after all.


	30. The Strangest Places

"Hey, come on," came a gratingly familiar voice behind him, "I returned from the depths of Hell to see you."

Edgeworth pinched the bridge of his nose, and vigorously ignored the rookie prosecutor dropping onto the stool beside him.

"Least you can do is open up the door once I'm here, amigo!"

What was Edgeworth doing at a function for the petty and ego-blind, these few hours from departure? He could nurse a drink anywhere. Each ice cube in his Manhattan caught red mask light; he could nearly _feel_ that idiotic grin seeping through his jacket.

"And a man -- a real man -- knows once his door opens, he's got one chance to step out and put his laundry on the line. All it takes is a few clothespins, amigo. Let those bath towels fly free!"

"_Godot,_" Edgeworth growled, "You are _drunk._"

"Ha...!"

Edgeworth deigned to glare at him. The emptied shotglass in Godot's pointing hand only put a finer point on the issue, and that lunatic grin widened -- familiar like grating sand.

"If you give a mule a spinning wheel--"

Migraines could develop with remarkable speed, under the right circumstances.

"--And expect him not to start a round of tequila--"

"I don't have time for this right now," Edgeworth spat, shoving up from the bar.

"--It's a man's _own fault_ if the rug's lumpy underfoot while he's cutting more lemon wedges. Hey. Edgeworth."

A single thread -- patience, social grace, curiosity -- held him back. And, much as he would surely regret it, Edgeworth looked over his shoulder to Godot.

"If we don't meet again, there's no telling these things ... just remember Lady Fate's got a sick sense of humour. So live like there's no morning after, got that?"

Ignoring the wobble in his posture, and the grin that hadn't quite faded, it likely was the most intelligent thing a half-baked beginner had ever uttered. Edgeworth even smirked, before he stormed away.


	31. Old Times: MiaLana

_Old times_ was an odd way to describe it. This dark coziness was nothing like stark dorm rooms, but maybe Lana just brought the feeling in with her, same as snowflakes on dark wool. It felt like _old times_.

Mia set her mug down. The firelight draped Lana's folds of long skirt, and her slender fingers examining cashmere. Warmth glittered on the tree's baubles and shone in Lana's slowly smiling eyes.

"It's beautiful," she said, and wasn't done.

"The colour reminded me of you." Mia eased to the floor beside her -- fire's thick heat against her side, rug plush under them. "And no, I didn't spend too much."

Lana smiled. "Thank you." And, turning slightly, "It's..."

A moment; logs crackled, and how had Mia forgotten the way thoughts stirred quietly to life on this woman's face?

"I'm reminded of college," Lana decided, "Last year, with the fire drill."

She couldn't forget that night if she tried.

"Hot chocolate never tasted so good!"

Murmuring agreement, truly smiling, Lana set the box aside into crunching tissue.

"I was thinking," Mia wondered, and her head tipped, "That this feels like old times."

And in this quiet, Lana's hand crept closer; it wasn't strange but she acted like it, whenever their fingers twined. She melted slow at the first touch of her cheek and Mia felt it fresh every time, the rush of awe and want, a tang like the cider ghosting on their lips.

Lana always clung as a kiss ended, and held gentle to Mia's lower lip -- _I've decided, don't go_.

"To all a good night," Mia breathed, because she couldn't resist.

A sigh, and Lana shifted closer, guided Mia's touch around her knit-clad waist.

"It _is_ tradition."

The fire's warmth cloaked, and Lana was all soft welcome and hair fanned on the rug. The best part of holidays was the familiar.


	32. Leviathan: AU

It was as if he found eternity among the willows. Miles stared, and the abyss stared long and deeply back.

"A son of Edgeworth, you say," the wyrm finally replied, breeze-mild, "I fear I've never heard of them, Worthy, dear boy."

His bloodline, mocked by the beast -- sword's hilt called Edgeworth's hand and he stayed it, eyes narrowing slow. No blade could best such heavy ridges of bronze scale, and the riverbank's damp gave precious little footing; fortune would favour his patience.

"And what," Miles said, "Shall I call you by?"

The wyrm grinned.

"I have had many names. Daemon, Kaijiganto, The Legendary ..." It lifted a great paw, and toyed with the glistening-damp fin falling between its eyes. "I am the swimmer of dark waters. I am the shadow in the rainstorm, I am the river's keeper."

His virtue would be tested on this journey, Miles knew as much. He stood taller with a murmur of chainmail.

"Then tell me, king of names, what I may do to earn passage across your domain."

Another endless gaze. And then the wyrm thundered merrily -- its laugh bellowed, its tail clapped against the water's green-murky surface.

"Ah, Worthy! All that lies beyond my river is forest upon forest, until the Esselnyne Valley. Such a treacherous place, you cannot _truly_ wish to go there."

It was no mere wish. Miles's very honour lay in that distant land, his forefathers' legacy dependant on a maiden's word.

"I do, king of names," he said. When his palm had laid on his sword's pommel, Miles didn't know.

A sharper look from the beast -- a glimpse of fangs, and an instant's lightning through the air between them.

"You know not what you wish upon yourself," and it growled now, its claws grated upon river stones.

"I may not," Miles spat, "Yet no one shall hide the truth from me, no longer. What must I do?"

He knew only steel, only his blood crying out for honour no matter the price. The wyrm stared -- its ire vanished, fog under morning sun.

"Those who seek the Esselnyne's wisdom are fools, Worthy. Each man who enters is never seen again." It blinked, cat-slow. "But if you still wish it, you may answer me this: what can bind the heart and soul, but be shattered with a single word?"

Miles knew the answer. He spent nights wishing he didn't.

"Silence. Silence kills, beast."

The wyrm only grinned.


	33. Undertow: PhoenixViola

_Liquid evil_ didn't fit. _Liquid_ did, certainly -- chill creeping along Phoenix's skin, rivulets down his spine and the fish he'd sleep with if anyone ever knew. But not _evil._ That word stopped tasting right as her locks crumbled away silver, and as she didn't quite stifle her cry, and as she smirked through the tears. No one who hurt like that could be evil.

Phoenix stared at the ceiling and waited for his breath to return, for the horror to finally set in, surely it would, any day now. Her fingers trailed goosebumps up his arms; the ropes' tension vanished, and circulation came blazing back through his wrists. He shifted to rub them and jumped at the limbs snaking around him, but the grave-chill wore off fast and she laughed like glacial melt. Knowing with dull logic how loose a waitress's straps fit -- it was nowhere near feeling her bird bones, and the burrowing of her nose and how wretchedly tight her grip was.

It was because, she said, quiet and Cheshire-smiling, he had once been scared of her -- _her_, a girl with no name.

Sticks and stones, Phoenix didn't mutter. He raked damp hair from his face and gathered her tiny frame closer.

He found coffee on his doorstep the next day, steam coiling fragrant from it. Against his better judgement, Phoenix didn't drink one drop.


	34. Optimism

"Hey, turn that frown upside down, Pearl!"

She looked up from the squelchy potato she was scrape-peeling with a tired, bent old spoon. Mr. Laurice -- wet to his knees, proudly clutching a straggly branch that wouldn't make very good firewood at all -- grinned at her.

"Um..." Pearl nearly chewed her thumbnail; rotten potato clung to it. "Turn it upside down ...?"

"Yeah!" He jabbed out a thumbs-up, and his smile strained around the eyes. "Look on the bright side and keep your chin up! Nothing can keep a good loser down!"

A lack of spiritual powers could, though. The potato in her hands suddenly looked even sadder. Pearl poked a big black spot with the spoon's tip -- it left a frown-shaped gouge.

"Do you really think so, Mr. Laurice ...?"

"Hey," he cried, clenching fists, "If lowly potatoes can become magnificent golden French fries, nothing's impossible! Reach for the stars! Maximize the envelope!"

She hadn't thought about it like that: potatoes had grow for a long time if they wanted to be French fries. And maybe if a loser potato worked hard, it could be delicious someday. Turning the potato over -- watching the gouge turn into a black-gaping smile -- Pearl nodded.

"I think I understand, Mr. Laurice." Another chunk of dark slime peeled off under the spoon's edge. "And these potatoes might be food after all!"

"Great," Mr. Laurice squawked. And he yanked thoughtfully on an old log before asking, "So, do you have any of that gravy left?"


	35. Bona Fide: GumshoeMia

Guys like him didn't _get _pretty ladies like Ms. Fey. He remembered that as he stood on the witness stand, cheeks blazing hot, the whole court staring. Dick tried to regret it and couldn't -- all he knew how to be was honest.

Maybe that was why he missed her after the first time they met, and why he watched trials and hoped for the defense to win. Maybe that was why Ms. Fey walked into the station for the first time, haloed with afternoon sun, eyes searching and landing on him, and Dick ached for her all over again.

And he lost count of how many pieces of evidence slipped away, of how many times the Prosecutor's Office glowered down at him. He tried to regret it, but maybe he knew how to be dumb as well as honest because he told Ms. Fey she could have his heart, too, if she wanted it.

She smiled -- at him, for _him_.

No one had told Mia Fey that guys like Dick didn't get pretty ladies like her. She let him pay. She took his hand. She talked, and she listened, and lent him keys to water the cordyline stricta the odd weekend, and she ran worried-gentle fingers over the scab from his Unfortunate Shaving Incident, and she laughed like spring rain and laid arms around his neck and Mia smiled at him, she always smiled.

And he never stopped aching for her, as she walked by his side, commandeered his lap, sighed contented in his arms and kissed like she had all day and moulded soft and wonderful to him, and guided his hands. He would have given anything to fall asleep beside her -- it would all turn out to be a dream if he did that, it would just fade away, he knew it. So Dick watched her, laid still on the tiny-or-maybe-he-was-just-big bed and watched Mia's even breathing, her curving form in the shadows until morning turned her warm-coloured, and Dick pulled the sheets higher over her because he shouldn't have been _looking_.

Maybe it was a dream after all, watching Mia wake like a flower blooming, watching her eyelashes stir and her gaze focus. Dick was the luckiest man in the world, and he told her so. Her smile had never been prettier.

And it still didn't feel real, so she wriggled close and settled, soft and warm with her breath tickling his chest and her hair's smell to drown in. She _knew_ things; that, Dick supposed, was the bright side of being honest.


	36. Contact: AdrianIris

She started getting out of the temple more, afterward. The outside world's colours brightened -- or maybe Iris just _saw_ them now, and noticed the faces streaming past, and watched traffic, and listened to the murmur of crowds' feet. She went to museums, festivals, aquariums, anywhere she could wander the edges of, thoughtfully, watching. She met people, and got better at smiling. Smallness brought the world together: sometimes a new friend would light with recognition at Phoenix's name.

Adrian Andrews, at the art show full of abstracts, in did it best: her eyes shone, she flicked bangs from her face, she straightened proud. Mr. Wright saved her, she said, sure as tides. She was free of her past. And she twisted her poor, battered notebook, and smiled, and asked if Iris had been to the café down the street because the chai latte there was excellent.

Iris realized that she had never tried latte, and that Adrian was very pretty when she was happy. She found that steamed milk turned to graceful nothing on her tongue, and that sins were easier to talk about in a murmur, below the ambiant bustle, with a knowing ache in Adrian's dark eyes whether she told or listened.

And there was joy after that. They didn't talk about sins until after more meetings and milk foam, after day trips and sun-glare and laughing like they had known each other forever, walking arm in arm. It wasn't until after, when Adrian's elegantly bare apartment was home-comfortable, when Iris knew the feel of sleek blonde hair through her fingers and being so happy nothing else mattered.

They didn't talk about sins again until the shower. It was a moment steam-wreathed and warmer than anything, tile sure at Iris's back, the easy slide of the water and their bodies and Adrian's lips against her forehead:

"You're the strongest person I know."

Iris's eyes flew open -- it couldn't be true but it hurt beautifully. She couldn't pick a truth to tell and she cupped Adrian's face in her hands, kissing her deep and nearly grateful enough. Their long hair clung and water trailed down skin, much like fingers did.

The world was smaller than usual that moment, closer, but always had its wealth to learn.


	37. Morpheus: MiaLana

She hadn't thought about it in years. Perhaps Mr. Wright triggered it with that learned faith, with the surreal familiarity in his stare and his tightening fists. Perhaps it was Ema, and the memories one after another like faded garland. It was entirely possible that the stress took its toll, and Lana's grip weakened and reality began slithering away.

But she stared at the ceiling and the dark and the cold, and she thought of Mia. Thought couldn't be the right word -- hard bunk held her back, air chilled her skin, and inside her was a shining haze of half-sleep, confusion, Mia.

This was, in fact, college. This was a January night and the heater pipes stood contemptuously silent; the window panes grew ornate frost. There were reports to write, textbooks to challenge -- shut out the echo, ignore the voices, no guards chattered -- but this was a down duvet and a pocket of wonderful, and Mia, Mia.

Had this ever happened? Had they ever huddled together, warm where their skin met, Mia's lips curled to a smile and brushing Lana's forehead? It was so natural, shifting a knee and feeling skin against hers, craning in to beg more of that soft touch. It didn't matter how it happened, or that Lana shouldn't have been so utterly thawed by breath gentle on her forehead -- Mia was the one attracted to her. This was college and it didn't bear thinking about.

Fingers teased her forearm, down over the back of her hand and Mia mist-laughed. How did she manage to do that to herself?

Didn't matter, didn't matter. The sting took her mind off it, heightened Mia's touch and the sore protest under her bandages. No cold, no walls, just this warmth as Mia's fingers squeezed hers and rose to stroke her hair -- god, how long had it been since anyone did that? One sublime pass, scalp to shoulder blades, nerve endings crackling one by one. Footsteps hammered distant; the world's edges sharpened.

Wish she was here, Lana thought.

She'd do fine, Mia said.

The ceiling was the same as before, just with voices clamouring past her cell door and footfalls, loud as they passed. Something spiked in Lana -- not fear, she was too comfortable for that. Her bed was warm now. She turned over, clutching her dressed hand to her chest. It stung when she tightened it. Imagining curious touch and fond eyes helped.

Sleep called, and Lana sank toward it.


	38. When Words Fail

The key had to be in the blood tests; not any of the ones blanketing the seafoam-coloured cafeteria table, where did that-- oh, how had that one gotten stuck to the bottom of her shoe?

At the first trill of greeting, Mia coolly restrained herself from cracking her head against the underside of the table. Instead, she straightened up -- she looked to Diego, and around until she spotted the spectacularly fluffy investigator herself. Here they went again.

"Like the last percolating drops of a fresh-brewed pot," Diego purred, grinning over the edge of his mug, "You couldn't come soon enough, Detective."

Smiling -- looking directly at her could cause cavities -- Detective Starr dug in her satchel.

"All good things come in time." She squinted fondly at Diego. "With the right care and preparation. You must be hungry, why don't you have a bite?"

And with that, Detective Starr lifted an evidence bag between perfectly manicured fingers: the golden letter opener flashed. Diego took a perfectly casual gulp of coffee.

"I sink my teeth into one thing: justice."

Detective Starr tipped her head. "Oh, this is more than a meal, Mr. Armando. Justice lingers long after the dishes have been cleared."

Setting his mug down, leaning slowly back, Diego smirked, "You don't say."

What were they even talking about anymore? Mia gathered the blood tests, and stuffed her shoe-printed one in the middle of the sheaf.

But Detective Starr's look darkened suddenly.

"No steel wool can scour away the truth's leavings."

Just as quickly, she was smiling again, smoothing her bangs back into place.

"But I'm sure you know that."

"Any man knows that," Diego replied, "Somewhere in the dark wilderness of his heart."

Setting the letter opener down and producing forensic results to match, Detective Starr nodded.

"Even the most carefully nibbled biscuit incriminates itself with crumbs. I think that's the key here. Well then, best of luck."

And Detective Starr left: Mia was faintly surprised not to see a trail of glitter left behind. She looked back to Diego, who had snapped up the blood tests for scrutiny.

"So, uhh, what did the lab find?"

"Weren't you listening, Kitten?" He held the tests aside, and grinned sly. "There are traces of blood on the letter opener, and the finish would flake off if anyone actually got up close and personal with it."

Mia chewed her thumbnail -- when had anyone said _that?_

"O-Oh, of course."

"You're still green. You'll catch on eventually," Diego said, turning pages, pausing on one, "In the meantime, just keep your pretty little foot down."

"Don't you mean 'keep your head down' ...?"

Grinning silence followed. Mia buried her face in her palm.


	39. High Noon: AU

There came a time in every cowpoke's life when he could be great -- he only had to walk out in the noonday sun, stand tall, and draw.

Jake never imagined it'd be like this. Adrenaline shook hot through him; the gun sat wrong in his hands. He'd wanted his moment of glory but, lord, not like this, never like _this_.

With a crash of office chairs and a startled waggle of cacti, Officer Meekins tripped back across the barricade.

"The filing cabinets aren't holding, sir!" He scrambled to sit up, colt knees splayed, saluting with all his heart. "Attempts to reinforce them failed due to my cuffs getting stuck in the drawers, sir! Sorry, sir!"

Nothing would stop those monsters and they both knew it. They watched the reports, and planned and readied themselves, all for nothing. Devil eyes and flashing claws, and screams, and gaping beaks glistening with fangs and life torn apart around them: the Chief's scream; Gumshoe charging in stupid and brave; Lana grimacing, courage and blood on her pretty face--

Jake's hands were numb, and they found his flask anyway.

"Don't matter none," he growled -- a gulp and a quick burn down his throat -- "How many shots d'you have?"

"My most accurate estimation is, err, three, sir!"

Fire raged outside, the sky blotted out with pain and smoke. The thumping grew louder, edged with crunching wood and plaster. Here they sat, Jake and the yearling Meekins, with a handful of lead between them and the great beyond.

"Save your shots 'til you see the whites of their eyes," Jake said. Wherever he'd heard it, that was some fine advice.

The door cracked, and the cabinets toppled and the werepelicans cackled louder, triumphant. If Jake looked over, sure as shooting he'd see flapping wings through the splinters, and talons tearing through like the whole station was made of old gunny sacks. No need for courage now -- all they had now was their duty, their last stand.

"Been fine workin' with you, Mike."

Gulping hard, lifting his gun like it may turn and strike, Meekins nodded.

"I-It's been an honour, sir."

One last crash; they held guns in white fists, and they were ready.


	40. High Noon Director's Cut: AU

The sun climbed over a battlefield -- buildings still smouldering, blood painting the streets, and feathers restless in the breeze. It was the most beautiful sight Jake had ever seen, all that aftermath and the fiery-gold dawn. He dropped the tattered remains of his poncho, and he watched.

"I-Is it really over, sir?"

He glanced to Meekins: cap long gone, soot streaked across his uniform, the snapped cord of his megaphone cradled in one hand, chin high and eyes wide and the pride of a man whose noose rope had snapped. Meekins'd never be a kid again; couldn't turn that horse around.

Flicking the cap off his flask -- his hands shook, it took a Texas hour -- Jake muttered, "Not until I've rustled up every one o' those damn werepelicans."

Meekins squawked. "But sir! That would be a very high-risk assignment--" and he saluted just in case, "--If I may say so, sir!"

"What does it matter?"

The dawn hung between them. Firewater blistered down Jake's throat, and he shakingly capped the flask, and shook his head.

"Can you get one wink of shut-eye knowin' those devils're out there?"

Meekins gulped apologetically.

"You saw how many rocket shells it took." Jake raked a hand through his hair, and memories stirred fresh -- the screaming, the shrieking like vultures, the dust and the blood and iLana/i-- "What if ... somebody else's still out there and ... I gotta make it right."

"We, sir."

And as Jake looked up, Meekins snatched up a hand between his eager own -- he shone like polished spurs.

"What I mean is that I can't neglect my post while on active duty, sir! S-so, anything that you need, Officer Meekins is at your command!"

If that didn't just beat all. And if that didn't just break the levee, so the shuddering ieverything/i inside Jake poured out -- he was dragging Meekins closer, rough, finding him all bones.

"Thanks, compadre."

He couldn't say more; he'd break. Meekins clung like warm tar.

"Never give up, sir! That's what I learned from you!"

Day washed over them, and there'd always be more moments.


	41. Wait To See: hoboPhoenixGodot

"You've changed, amigo."

This muttered into the hollow of Phoenix's throat. He answers with a chuckle, and his fingers lace deeper into Diego's too-long hair.

"Haven't we all?"

No _boy_ here. Phoenix growls, pleased, and rocks upward to meet him. No need for the damn visor: Diego knows the new, wise gleam in Phoenix's eyes just fine.

"Time makes men stronger," and he pauses to gasp, "Same as a percolating pot of black magic."

Phoenix knows him, after all, knows how black his soul gets and how lonely a man can be. Touch strokes through Diego's hair and raises grateful gooseflesh down his back. Phoenix props onto an elbow -- jostled angles in the dark, breath on Diego's cheek:

"As long as someone's waiting for the end result."

He gets kissed for that, deep and hard. A rhythm builds between them, nearly perfect enough for tears; Diego has changed, too, and it doesn't matter.


	42. Let Lie: folklore AU

Folklore, Edgeworth knew, was for the weak-minded. Lack of information caused the human imagination to spin ridiculous near-gibberish stories, anything to fill the gap; Edgeworth was educated enough to know better.

The sounds he heard each night were from an ordinary animal. Likely a stray dog. He told himself this each time he strode tall up his front walk, listening to the nighttime breeze and tapping claws.

It sounded too large to be a-- no, that simply meant it was a large _breed_ of mongrel, perhaps someone's Saint Bernard or English Mastiff that got loose. Edgeworth couldn't allow his imagination those reins, no matter if the underground parking lot lights played tricks, no matter how many times he thought he saw glowing eyes.

How strange that he only heard claws: a large beast ought to make sound, and no dog Edgeworth knew of moved so smoothly. There had to be a gap in his education. He began with the canine reference books he leafed through during thinking-of-getting-one phases. Size, temperament, care requirements. Ordinary. He moved on to peculiarity reports: unusually large dogs, natural anomalies, roots of superstition. Before he knew it, the clock read midnight and his Internet browser history was full of old wives' tales -- Edgeworth poured more tea with shaking hands.

Black dogs followed people. Black dogs brought death.

But this was foolish, feeding his imagination like a child soaking in ghost stories -- he had court tomorrow. Edgeworth gripped his briefcase tight, and ignored the cold wind at his coat tails and the illusionary gaze in the parking lot shadows. He drove home down perfectly usual streets, followed his front walk that would look no different in daylight--

Claws again, _tap-tap_ across the stones behind him. A chill crawled up Edgeworth's back and what colour, he wondered, was the creature's fur?

Enough. He turned, he caught a glimpse of moving paws and cold lanced through him, sudden gloom gripped his thoughts. Black dogs gave some sort of aura; they were never seen. How absurd, it must have been--

"Here," he croaked.

Quiet. The dim light of distant streetlights caught the thing's eyes. Yes, talk to it, people talked to normal dogs.

"Here, boy," Edgeworth said, voice weak and shaking in his own ears, "Come on."

He forced a hand forward, open and offering. He might have stood there for minutes, numb with despair and struggling to see, and the soft, moist sound of panting. How ... ordinary. And its eyes flashed, its claws tapped and it was gone. Edgeworth stood alone in the night, lowering his hand to his side.

He put dog food out on the front step once. It sat untouched the next morning. Names made life familiar, so Edgeworth called the dog Pess.


	43. To Let Down: LanaIris

There were many logical paths she could have followed to figure out why they liked long hair so much. All led to the past. All were grim.

Judging by the light -- a pale streak across the far wall of the cell -- it was early still. Lana lifted a curled hand, slow, for another stroke. Scalp to small of back, root to tip; dark and silky, flowing around Lana's fingers. In her sleep, Iris sighed, and nuzzled warmer, closer.

They might have a few minutes before the morning rounds, a few more forevers of presence. A long meditative exhale, and Lana noted the mattress's curve, Iris's breath fanning on her throat, the folds of nightclothes caught between them. And the strand of her own hair curled around Iris's hand, like embrace.

Another stroke, Iris's shoulder blades distant under all that soft night. She never braided it anymore. Lana wanted to ask why and, each time she looked into those faintly familiar eyes, couldn't.

There were many logical reasons for this, all of this, but Lana knew better. She closed her eyes, she drifted, and took a soft handful of her own. Nowadays, she lived in the present.


	44. A Small Glass Of Welcome: GantAngel

It wasn't as though anything terrible had occurred. One more day of glowering over the maps, chasing Darke like a bay leaf through grim sauce. Dreadful things, bay leaves.

For all his loud gaiety, Damon knew when to keep his mouth shut.

"Once this is over," Angel murmured against him, "I do hope the team gets a break."

"I'm sure the Chief will arrange something."

Smiling as he said it, serene like milk and honey. He wound grip closer around her, the slow, delicious thrill of male muscle nestling in her curve of waist. Their jackets waited in a proper closet and Angel hadn't seen him loosen his shirt cuffs before.

He settled, and stilled. It made Angel wish she knew how to relax, wash off her makeup and really linger with Damon and his couch -- both leather, both grand and sure enough to sink into.

There was a lot to be said for older men. They knew patience.

"May I get you anything, Gella?"

She smiled. "This is fine, thank you."

What a quaint nickname she had. It tasted like someone wholesome in an old-world kitchen, tending a pot of osso buco -- tough meat until it was treated right.

"If I can make it up to you," Angel added -- why? Did she mean it this time? -- "Let me know."

Patient quiet, aging like wine.

"Hmm? This is quite an ordinary thing to want." He lifted a hand, and trailed gloved fingers on her skin; his voice hummed ocean-low against her. "We're only human."

Her wiles had never worked on Damon -- or so it seemed, the proof lay in the pudding and Angel held a spoon. She watched through her lashes, the simple terrain of his shirt at night. Touch blurred on her shoulders.

"Just a thought," she said. Bangs slid farther into her vision and she didn't care, she closed her eyes and was warm.

Sound paled against him, the city traffic a murmur past his heartbeat. Her dress would be rumpled from sitting. Time must have passed outside his arms.

"Anything you'd like from me," he decided, "You can ask for, though, Gella."

Turkey at Christmas, Damon -- she knew that already.


	45. Shutting One's Trap: PhoenixMia

Phoenix would have been perfectly happy to write it off as a dream: Mia's mouth at his throat, her fingers disassembling his suit, the bedroom door at his back and warm lamplight on her skin. But that wasn't a trick of the light, that was -- and he gingerly lifted the elastic of her panties to make sure -- a _tattoo_. On her left cheek. In a _very large font_.

"D-Die-- Edge-- Chief, what--"

"I was drunk," she said, and frowned. "...Very drunk. Don't worry about it, alright?"

She spread her hands over Phoenix's chest, and pressed him back against the door.

"Who's Diego?" he spluttered.

"Nick," Mia breathed soft by his ear, "Stop thinking."

He tried; he tipped his head back, and she carried on doing that amazing thing behind his ear. Bizarre association, though, the curve of her ass and the crisp, inked memory of Edgeworth's name--

"D-Did you and Edgeworth--"

"Stop _talking_, too," Mia muttered.

But the realization struck Phoenix: "Do you have Edgeworth's _number_?! I've been trying for _years_, that's--"

From then on, Phoenix promised himself while removing his face from the sidewalk outside her apartment, he would _always follow Mia's advice_.


	46. Little Things: DiegoMia

Mia couldn't tell which was more adorable: the pet store enclosure full of wide-eyed kittens, or Diego's delighted cry when he saw them.

"So," and Mia smiled, reaching in to scratch a calico behind the ear, "You really do like kittens?"

"I _love_ kittens."

She hadn't expected that much ... _intensity_ in his voice. But then again, Mia thought -- watching her boyfriend climb into the enclosure table and gather up a lapful of kittens -- she couldn't say she was surprised. He'd even put down his coffee mug. _Out of arm's reach._

"All kinds of kittens," Diego added, petting a black tuxedo and letting a tabby use his hand for a chew toy, "Whether they're beautiful, or simply cute."

It was hopeless, but Mia smiled sheepish and tried anyway. "You're ... not supposed to be in there."

"Ha...!" He grinned. "Like the rich depths of black magic, this is too good to pass up."

It took her a few more moments of looking between him and the kittens. But as the pet store owner's voice rose, and that serene grin stayed plastered on Diego's face, Mia chewed her thumbnail with embarrassment and decided.

Diego was cuter.


	47. Fluke: CharleyMia

It was an accident: she stretched too far for a file on the top shelf, she wasn't paying attention to her feet. Charley's pot was freshly watered and heavy enough to trip on. There was a panicked moment where Mia grabbed for something, anything, she couldn't find a solid grip in the rustling air--

Suddenly on her rump on the floor, breathing hard. Suddenly, gently pinned, with Charley fallen over her, leaves cool and smooth against her cleavage.

She laughed because she had to. She sat up, and righted Charley, and patted his trunk.

"I know someone," Mia murmured, "Who'd be _very_ jealous if he saw that."


End file.
